Homecoming
by Magery
Summary: "You must give the gift to the one they call Jon Targaryen, in Westeros."


**This story contains spoilers for each and every released book, and uses theories that may become canon in the future. If you haven't read up to and including A Dance With Dragons, I suggest doing that first.**

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"You must give the gift to the one they call Jon Targaryen, in Westeros."

The girl who was once no-one did not react in any way, save to acknowledge the man who had spoken, and to quell the memories of a place she hadn't returned to in nine years. The Waif had taught her how to lie with her face, her body and her mind, but for this she needed no such skills. She did not know of this Jon Targaryen, save that the rest of his life was naught but a formality. The part of her that had been Arya Stark remembered a brother, bastard-born but as true as any man, but he was born Jon Snow, and the last she had seen of him was the day he'd left for the Wall.

She still had Needle, the blade he'd given her, but she didn't quite know why she'd kept it; it was a child's sword, forged for a child's hand and a child's heart. She had killed with it, but those were a child's kills, and she was not a child. No, the girl who had once been Cat of the Canals was a woman grown, eight-and-ten, as harsh as winter and as wild as a wolf.

By day she danced the water dance, duelling the bravos and anyone else who caught her eye, as she had since she was thirteen. The last time she'd lost had been six months ago, and that had been against the First Sword of Braavos. She could have won, perhaps, but the girl who had been Arya Stark was reminded of another First Sword, and she had faltered for a split-second, snapping back to reality with a sword at her throat.

By night, she served the Many-Faced God, training and learning and delivering the gift to those deemed fitting to receive it. She received her assignments then, but it was only during the day she killed. Knives, poison, blow darts, a thousand little tricks and a thousand little deaths, each as insignificant as the last. Valar Morghulis. Words to live by, words to kill by, words to die by. After everything she'd seen and done, they were the only two words that still rung true for her - all men must die. And now it seemed this Targaryen prince would be the next to be given the gift by the girl who had once been Nan the cupbearer.

She rose from her crouch and left, not bothering to acknowledge the few others who knelt before the altar like her. The man who had spoken to her was long gone, wearing another face and another name. She too wore a face that was not hers, and as she left, she moved as a woman to match the age she appeared to be, hunched over and shuffling slowly out of the temple. It took her several minutes to reach the shadows of a nearby alley, but the girl who had once been a blind beggar had learned patience; the patience of the prowling wolf, the patience of winter as it waited for the spring to end.

She straightened; shedding the old woman like the mask she was and launched herself upwards with a grace that was distinctly animal, using one wall as a springboard to grab the lip of the other before flipping herself over with one hand to land soundlessly on the roof above. She didn't need to traverse Braavos like that, but truth be told she enjoyed being closer to the stars. She had always been a little bit wild, after all.

She made her way to the port, avoiding thief and assassin alike, the two she shared her nocturnal highway with. They did not see her, simply because she saw them - if another who brought the gift had joined her up above, neither would have noticed the other unless they had been searching. It was not arrogance, merely fact - all who served the Many-Faced God were always on the lookout for danger, a sixth sense honed to be as natural as breathing, but their fellow brothers and sisters were significantly more than merely a 'danger'.

She wore another face to hire a ship bound for Westeros but crewed by Bravoosi, boarding it in the dead of night and sneaking into the captain's cabin—_as quiet as a shadow_—and waiting for him to return before showing him the coin and speaking the words.

She returned on the morrow with what she required for her journey. For a reason she couldn't quite explain, she decided to bring Needle as well, and even belted it on as if it was a real sword. It was a child's weapon, but it was the only thing of hers she'd brought away from the land of her birth - perhaps it was only fitting she returned with it as well. Even if it was only for the duration of her task.

Over the course of the journey, she spent her time practicing, be it flowing through parts of the water dance or throwing knives until she finally mastered a trick that had eluded her for some time - hitting one thrown knife with another so that they deflected, both hitting their intended targets. It wasn't a particular useful skill; she could just as easily throw the two knives at wherever she decided to aim them without bothering with fancy tricks, but she often amused herself with exercises like the one she'd just completed. They were was good for showing off - if the bravos of the city she'd left behind appreciated one thing, it was a fine display of skill. Preferably with a blade or two involved.

She couldn't shake the slight feeling of nervousness that struck her when she viewed Kings Landing, the city that had begun the journey of the girl once called Arya Underfoot, and it disgusted her. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ She had never felt unnerved in years, and it worried her that returning to a place that had been her home for less than a year could do that to her. But the part of her that had once been a Stark knew why she felt like she did, and held the memories of her father close, faded by the years though they were.

She disembarked, the captain's intonation of 'Valar Dohaeris' already forgotten, and stalked through the streets, tall and proud, as lithe as a dancer and as arrogant as a cat. Men and women would stare at her, but the Seven Kingdoms had seen many from across the sea since Daenerys Targaryen had taken the throne, and she knew none would remember her for too long - especially since she was wearing a different face, one she thought prettier than that of her own. Nobody would recognize her anyway, but she was saving her own for when she finally gave the gift. She'd only ever killed with one face in Westeros, and for some reason it felt wrong to kill with any other.

She ignored the more-than-few catcalls and whistles that broke out over the noise of the city itself, moving through the crowds towards the inner part of the city. She'd find an inn, stay there until she was certain of her plan, bring the gift and leave under a new name and a new face, just like she'd always done. Sometimes, it seemed the girl who had once been no-one had been running all her life, but that was who she was. As long as she was free, not bound by laws or restraints or anything but her own desires, she cared not for what her life was like. Her years in Braavos had not changed that - all that had changed was that she was a lot more capable of ensuring she remained as wild as she'd always been.

She found an inn, paid for three nights even though she would really only need two, and waited until darkness fell before slipping out the window and climbing down to the ground below. This time she wore her own face, and before she'd left she'd changed her clothes and hidden away Needle - she was armed with only her knives, but she had more than enough of those. She slunk through the shadows like a hunting wolf, remembering a fateful exploration as a younger child through the depths of a castle. She intended to see if the same route was available this time; she hoped it would be, as then her job would be much, much easier. As she moved, she saw almost no-one, save for those who used the night for to kill, to steal, to commit a hundred different crimes she'd seen a hundred times before.

The girl who had once been the Hand's daughter stalked through the night, at one with the shadows, using their embrace as part shield, part sword. She was in luck - her once-secret exit was seemingly unguarded. She noted the best place to observe it from, and the second, and moved into the third. Rather than studying her way in, she looked to see who was watching it. Sure enough, the shadow that denoted the best place to keep a silent watcher was slightly wrong, too solid to be completely empty. The same was the case with the second-best option. Whoever was taking care of security in the Red Keep knew what they were doing - that, or there was more than one interested party. Either or, why they were there didn't matter, only that they were there. She would have to deal with them somehow, if she wanted to infiltrate the castle in secret.

She waited in silence, content simply to watch and observe. A few hours passed, and finally what she was waiting for occurred - the watchers had what she could only call a shift change. The switch was as smooth and as precise as an easy death, but it was still enough for the girl who had once been no-one. She moved as lightly as a feather, blending into the darkness like she'd been born there, taking advantage of momentary lapses in concentration to move beyond the watcher's vision and into the castle itself.

She slunk past guards, moved through a field of dragon's skulls and made her way to her goal - the throne room. She had never liked asking for or buying information, preferring to trust only herself, and so she didn't know where the Targaryen prince slept. But she knew where he'd be, and she could take his life in front of a hundred as easily as she could alone in his bed. So she scouted it out, studying footholds and handholds, good hiding spots and where to watch those spots, scanning the room with the eyes of a girl who'd been killing since before she was ten.

Satisfied with her efforts, she didn't leave the way she came, instead stealing a maid's clothes and waiting until dawn before changing her face again and moving with the confident stride of someone who had a place to be and a job to do, carrying her old clothes like she was taking them for a wash, or perhaps to be disposed of. Needless to say, as soon as she was out of the castle proper she changed back into her own clothes, throwing the maid's clothes into an alley the first chance she got before returning to her room and breaking in, entering the way she'd left. There were still too few people out for anyone to have noticed her, and with the same face as she hired the room with on, she could deflect any questions by saying she hasn't wanted to disturb anyone by going in the normal way. Between the face's pretty smile and her knives, nobody would comment upon it for long.

Exhausted by so long without sleep, she collapsed into the bed. She'd found she could hold off her tiredness as long as she was doing something, but now that she was back and with nothing to do but wait, she slipped into a surprisingly restless sleep. She dreamed of wolves, of fierce hunters and a monstrous pack, of something that felt familiar and yet different to anything she'd experienced in years. She dreamed of winter, of a bastard brother and another bastard she hadn't thought of in a long time, and even of her parents.

* * *

She awoke at dawn on her third day in Westeros, well-rested and secure in the knowledge her target would be exactly where she needed him to be. Today, the Queen and her full Council would be holding court, an open court, where each and every person could come to petition the Queen, or to simply see her and hear her speak. This, she had heard from so many different mouths in so many different casual conversations she knew it had to be fact, and so she shelved her usual distrust of information she had not seen with her own eyes.

She armed herself, supplementing the twin knives she wore night and day with four others, two coated with poisons that required them to be kept in special sheaths. Hidden underneath her gloves—she wore two pairs simply to hide them—were special tools she'd had crafted by the finest smiths she could find, ones that doubled as climbing aids and weapons.

There was a reason she hadn't forgotten the girl who had once been Cat of the Canals, for that girl had given her an idea – cat's claws. Razor-sharp, they could swipe out a man's throat as easily as they could dig into cracks in a wall; for her, they made climbing as easy as killing. The girl who had once had many brothers remembered one of them, a boy who loved to climb before he fell—was thrown—out of a highest tower in Winterfell. She did not wear them for his sake, nor for any purpose but practicality, but she could not deny the fond remembrances that sometimes struck her when she was scaling walls to reach a goal. And ever so rarely, she would climb simply for the sake of it, as an unconscious tribute to a boy she did not properly remember.

She sheathed Needle on her hip, strapping the belt tight around her narrow waist and slipping a few poisons into the pockets attached to it – she didn't need them for what she was planning to do, but the girl who had served the god of death for years knew the value of being prepared.

With that, she left her room and the inn behind, changing to her true face when she ducked into an alley for a few seconds. She strolled through the city, moving with an easy grace. Nobody hassled her, not even the men and women who ran the market stalls, not even a pickpocket or three.

The people in Kings Landing had gotten used to dangerous men and women, between the Dothraki and the Queensguard and the few wildings who had decided to see what the soft South really was like, and they knew when not bother them. Of course, that wasn't entirely the reason they left her alone – it may have been because the first person to try and steal from her had wound up missing every finger on the hand they'd tried to lift her purse with.

She reached the castle proper, and strolled through the gate in the middle of a cluster of people, using the crowd like she used the shadows to hide from the guards; she didn't think they'd exactly approve of a woman walking into an open court armed as she was. Which would be rather wise of them, all things considered. She moved through the procession, the clutter and bustle of humanity all around her, waiting until she saw her chance to depart.

Spotting a side passage, she slipped through the crowd and vanished up it, picking someone's pocket and dropping it on the floor next to them so they turned away from her, holding up the crowd as they stopped to pick up their purse. Having reached her goal unnoticed and unseen, she walked up the passage until she found a window, one that opened out to the wall of the castle.

She was on the same level as the throne room – now all she needed to do was find her way in, and if she remembered correctly, there was a convenient glass window right behind the throne… and all the royal guards and everyone else in the room stood in front of the Queen and her Council. They'd have to be fast—_as swift as a deer_—to stop her, and even the Dothraki were no match for the disciples of the Many-Faced God, not when she had the advantage of surprise. She'd kill the prince in front of his own court and nobody could do anything about it.

As she slowly made her way around the walls of the castle to where the back of the throne room would be, cat's claws latching onto handholds as her narrow feet dug into cracks in the mortar and the bricks, she wondered if her teachers would approve of giving the gift in such a bold manner. She doubted they would, but the girl who was still a wolf cared not for the thoughts of others. She did as she pleased, for as long as she wanted to and not one moment longer, making up for all the time she hadn't been able to, for the lost innocence of a child who never truly got to be a child.

She reached her goal, unnoticed by the many guards scattered around the Red Keep – after all, who'd be looking for someone _on_ the walls of the castle? Nobody did things like that. Nobody except her, it seemed. Hanging on to wall on one side of the window so as not to throw a shadow, she looked through the glass – everything was blurred and tinged yellow, but she could see the rough shapes of men and women, and the hulking Iron Throne that dominated the room.

To the right, she picked out what could have been a child's figure, although she thought it more likely to be Tyrion Lannister's. Between him and the throne, or perhaps a few steps in front, were two others, much taller and obviously armed – the yellow tinting did strange things to colours, but she could tell one of them was wearing a white cloak, and because he was much closer to the Imp in height than anyone else she had ever seen, she deemed him to be standing in front of the two.

The other she did not recognize, save that his hair was the same colour as the Queensguard's cloak. Obviously a Targaryen, and not the one she was after; she had been told that this Jon Targaryen had black hair. This struck her as passing strange, for it was known that all pure Targaryens had white hair, and yet he was acknowledged as a Prince all the same.

Near the Imp, the Targaryen and the Queensguard stood two men, both of them obviously overweight. She did not recognize one of them, but the other triggered a young girl's memory of a man—well, a eunuch—called the Spider, the Seven Kingdom's master of whispers. Dismissing them all from her mind, she moved around the window to be able to look in from the other side, giving herself a better angle to see those on the left of the throne.

And there she saw him, standing tall and proud, armed with a longsword and the stance of one obviously wearing some form of armour. He had black hair, no white cloak, and he was the closest to the throne of all the others on the left side. That was her target, Jon Targaryen, to whom she must bring the gift.

The girl who had once been Arya Stark launched herself through the window, shattering it with a double-footed kick as she spun, knives already in her hands. The first whistled towards the Queensguard, the second and third already in the air and on their way towards Tyrion Lannister and the white-haired Targaryen prince as faces in the crowd turned to her in shock. The knives were aimed to miss, but they did their duty, as each of their targets flinched away involuntarily as her blades sliced the air next to their heads.

She landed in a crouch, uncoiling like a spring—_quick as a snake, fierce as a wolverine_—as she launched herself towards Jon Targaryen. The prince had turned around, and as she lunged through the air, she chanced to see his face. The features were familiar, yet they blended together in a strange way, like a puzzle she'd seen once solved a different way, yet one that still gave the same picture as before. She slammed into him before he could draw his blade – except he hadn't. He hadn't drawn anything, his features blank with shock as he tumbled back towards the floor.

She was about to slash his throat out with one razor-sharp claw when his face reconciled itself into something she recognized, as three voices shattered the eerie silence, three voices she didn't think she'd ever hear again.

Jon Snow spoke first, his voice older than she remembered, embittered with the weariness of a man who had loved and lost – it reminded her of her own.

"Ar… Arya?"

The second voice that broke through was a woman's, high and shrill and one that somehow reminded the girl who had once been Arya Horseface of a home she'd long forgotten, of arguments with a sister she'd long thought dead.

"Arya! No!"

The third was deeper, stronger, more the voice of a bull than of a man; it spoke of brothers in arms, of boys the girl she'd once been had called friends, of the bastard she'd called stupid a thousand times before.

"Arya Stark?"

The girl who had once been many others froze, memories crashing around her like she was a frail ship in a thunderstorm, hand a hairsbreadth from ripping out the man who had truly been her brother's throat. His arms came up around her, pulling her into an embrace, ignoring the fact she'd just tried to kill him because to him it didn't matter because she was _alive_. His little sister was _alive_.

And as her favourite brother held her to him like he was never going to let her go again, Braavos slipped from her like so many useless clothes as she became Arya Stark for the first time in nine years. Her only sister had finally reached them and, ignoring the grace and decorum she wore like armour, flung herself on top of both of them, sweeping them together as the last, lost Stark returned.

Arya had come home.

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**Author's Note:**

This one has been hanging around for a little while - it was originally supposed to be a chaptered fic, but halfway through writing the second chapter I realised it really wasn't going anywhere. A couple of months later (i.e today), I stumbled on it again and realised I could modify the first chapter into this one-shot. I hope you enjoyed it!


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